


Summer Tastes Like Cherries

by Anonymous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Girls Kissing, Guilt, Healing, Heartbreak, Heterosexual Sex, Introspection, Kissing, Mila is her rock, Multi, Sara is a mess, Shame, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Unhealthy Relationships, set before during and after canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sara has always associated Mickey with heat. His boiling temper, his fiery passion, his hot mouth on hers, the burning flush of shame on her cheeks.Being with Mila feels like a soothing balm on sun-burnt skin.
Relationships: Michele Crispino/Sara Crispino, Mila Babicheva & Sara Crispino, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Anonymous





	Summer Tastes Like Cherries

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags. If this is a squick or even trigger for you, be kind to yourself and press the back button.  
> The author is aware incest is bad, the characters know it as well, so there is no need to lecture anyone. Don't like, don't read! <3

When Mickey stumbles into her room during a hot night in late spring, his eyes bright and feverish like they are when he steps on the ice at a competition, Sara knows she should send him away.

She doesn't.

Because beneath the feverish gleam is a softness that seems to be reserved only for her, gentle despite its intentions, and so familiar in its fierceness that it's not as frightening as it probably should be.

It has always been there, this unbridled love, but it wasn't until That Summer that Mickey allowed it to shine like this, bright as the sun that had scorched their naked skin back then, as they embraced each other unseen between the tall vines of uncle Dino's vineyard, for the first time fully surrendering to what had been brewing between them for as long as they both remembered.

Mickey had the sunburn for days, giving him an excuse to wear a shirt at all times despite the scorching heat, hiding the scratches on his back that Sara had left there in her desperate attempt to cling to something, while she was swept away by a force that felt out of this world.

Now, as Mickey approaches, the world again seems to shift a little, enough to make her feel like she might lose her balance. Enough to make her knees weak.

But Mickey catches her before she can fall.

Or maybe they are just falling together, desperately clinging to each other like back then, and it is only a matter of time until they will inevitably crash and burn.

She remembers Mickey's hands in her hair, sticky from the grapes they picked, tugging on her hair without wanting to, making her gasp and moan and smile.

Mickey's hands are sticky now, as if every touch leaves a lasting mark. Tainted. Dirty.

His mouth on hers is sweet, as if she can taste the grapes again, but they aren't in the vineyard, they're home, and it's harder to pretend they're alone in the world. It sours the sweetness like vine turned to vinegar, and the bitterness on her tongue refuses to be chased away, no matter how hard Mickey is trying. And she knows he's trying. He's as desperate as she feels.

They're chasing a dream while being wide awake, and she wonders if they'll ever stop trying to catch it.

Mickey asked their uncle to send them one of the bottles of wine from that year – he sent a whole box. Sara would never admit it but she still has one unopened bottle hidden away under her bed. Like a precious piece of that magical summer safely preserved. Just like the wine, the memory only gets better with time. Replayed in her mind in the dead of night again and again and again until it's distilled to perfection and only the good parts remain. The parts that make her clench down on her own fingers as her body trembles, biting into her pillow to keep silent. The parts that don't hurt.

Those parts are harder to get rid of in the present, even in this darkness. They lurk around in the shadows, like invisible eyes judging them.

Sara pants against Mickey's lips when his hands cup her breasts, sticky fingers finding and twirling her nipples. Just like she showed him, that summer. And when he kisses her again, she can't pretend that this is just another feverish, forbidden fantasy. This is real, as real as that summer was, and she can't hide, not even in this darkness.

It doesn't help that Mickey tastes like wine.

She tumbles backwards to lean against the wall and Mickey follows without fault, hands and lips never leaving her, and the cool, solid pressure of the stone wall against her shoulders just isn't enough to ground her.

Mickey is all sharp angles and rough edges. It may seem odd, given the fact that they are both figure skaters and spend most of their time on the ice – their whole life shaped by it – but Sara has always associated Mickey with heat. His boiling temper, his fiery passion, his hot mouth on hers, the burning flush of shame on her cheeks. The enveloping warmth of the summer sun tanning their naked skin as their sweaty bodies slide against each other.

Not here. Here it's so dark she can't see the tears running down Mickey's cheeks, a blanket of shadows hiding where his hands touch her, hot and heavy on her skin. But she can hear his breath hitch and feel his fingers tremble when he finds how dripping wet she is. There's a broken moan from both of them, and Sara hopes Mickey won't talk. If he talks, she'll cry, too.

Maybe he knows, because he does her the favor of staying silent. He's never been good at dealing with her tears.

It's fast and hushed, this stolen rush of ecstasy. They know how to keep silent, how to turn heavy breaths into stifled sighs, muting their moans with desperate kisses. Still, she can't hold back a gasped moan when he fills her. He fits so right. Two puzzle pieces that were only separated by mistake.

But no, the mistake is their attempt at piecing them back together. If they're ever caught at it, they'd be separated forever.

“Never,” Mickey always says fiercely, even though he feels the same crippling fear as she does, “I'll never let that happen. I'll never let anyone take you away from me.”

Sometimes she can't tell anymore whether it's a promise or a threat. She isn't sure he knows, either.

He's so protective. So possessive. So obsessed that he never even pauses for a second to consider that it might be her walking away instead of being taken.

Maybe because he knows that she's too weak to walk away. But what if she's also not strong enough to stay?

She feels so weak, and she can't fathom from where he takes the strength to lift her up like he does right now, holding her close, thrusting deep. Between the wall and him, she feels like she's literally trapped between a rock and a hard place, securely locked in place. She hates how safe it makes her feel, because it shouldn't. She hates how right it feels, because it isn't. She hates that he knows her so well, that he's always paying such close attention, that he's learned so much so eagerly from those few moments they'd shared like this. She hates that he's not selfish here, like he usually is with everything else.

She comes before he does, with a choked-back sob and his name stuck in her throat like a silent scream.

He's crying when his hips start stuttering and he follows her over the edge, her name a hoarse, desperate mantra on his lips. She's glad for the darkness once again, because that way maybe he won't see that seeing him come apart like this for her is breaking her heart.

When it's over, she allows her legs to give in and slides down the wall. For a moment she finds herself facing Mickey's crotch just as he tugs off the condom, swaying heavily with the weight of his release. It makes her sick to think that she knows what it tastes like.

Another summer is waning, and the change in the air shrouds her in nostalgia for all the wrong reasons. She's never liked change, not even when it is predictable, like the ebb and flow of the tides.

Some changes are more volatile, and still inevitable. Nothing lasts forever. Summer always ends.

They're celebrating mama's birthday in late September. The whole family gets together for a weekend, lounging under citrus trees in the garden when the weather allows it, or gathering in the big dining room at grandma's house next door.

The room is huge, large enough to seat the whole family at one giant table, but it still feels too small for how big the secret has become that Sara and Mickey are hiding between them. She sits as far away from him as she can during dinner, and is thankful when nobody mentions it.

Mickey throws her questioning looks that border on being reproachful, and she wants to yell at him for being too obvious. She knows she's probably just panicking. Nobody knows. Nobody even suspects anything. They've been hiding this ever since mama had seen them kiss when they were seven. Back then they didn't know that what they were doing was wrong, but after that day, they never forgot.

And they made sure they were never caught again.

Now Mickey scowls at her reproachfully from across the table, as if she is being unreasonable for not sitting glued to his side the whole time. She wonders if he is aware that what they truly are is insane.

Uncle Dino is there as well, and he's brought more wine. He never seems to have noticed that after that one box from that fateful summer, the twins haven't touched another bottle from that vineyard. Mickey once asked him if there was more from that year, and Sara was almost relieved when the answer was negative. She thinks about sharing that last bottle still hidden under her bed with Mickey, and telling him to end this once and for all. His eyes find hers across the room, unerringly, and she looks away, afraid he might have read her thoughts. She knows he can feel it brewing as well, the change, like a storm on the horizon. And he hates it just as much as she does.

While the end of a season always makes her sad, the beginning of a new one, while exciting, always makes her nervous. Saying good-bye to familiar music and programs that have become trusted friends as the season progressed is painful, even with the promise of new music to discover, new moves to memorize, and new costumes to gush over.

But as a new competitive season looms on the horizon, the prospect of change is daunting. She knows something needs to happen. She cannot go on like this. But then again... what's one more season? Maybe even one last summer? And then, for real this time, with another new season starting, Sara will take a step away, and make the change that needs to be made.

One last summer, and then...

The sentence leads nowhere, and that's what frightens her more than anything.

At Rostelecom, she drops the bomb on him and watches him shatter. She should have known that she'd be just as shell-shocked as him. Sitting in the stands, her heart is still thundering wildly and she still has no idea how she managed to tell him to spend more time apart, to not cling to each other like dead weights, holding each other back. The vow to reach the Grand Prix Final even without his help just burst out of her. She even believed it, in that moment.

But Mickey wasn't ready for her to say all of this, and she knows she's lying to herself when she thinks that maybe if she'd just given him a little more time, he might not have taken it so hard.

It's because of thoughts like this that she knows that she wasn't ready, either. There is no way to cushion this fall. And she doesn't know how to stop this dreadful feeling inside her, as if she's still constantly falling.

She's startled out of her dark thoughts when Mila puts her arm around her and she realizes that watching Mickey skate has made her cry. It doesn't help when Georgi exclaims that he could feel Mickey's love in his skating. He skated for her. He always does.

She allows Mila to comfort her even though she thinks that she doesn't deserve it. If Mila knew what it was that Sara was crying about, she'd be disgusted. Sara is disgusted herself. She should just feel happy that Mickey did so well right after Sara broke his heart. Instead, she dreams of running back to him, taking back her words, make him collapse into her arms and into her lap in some dark hidden corner of their hotel, until they're both shaking with ecstasy, drenched in sweat and tears.

She's so afraid of acting on it that she can't bring herself to sleep in their shared hotel room together; she knows she won't be able to just lie there while he cries himself to sleep.

When Sara does the same in Mila's room, it's Mila who can't just lie there. Sara doesn't protest when she walks over to her, and Mila doesn't ask any questions, just crawls under her covers, gathers Sara in her arms, and holds her until she falls asleep.

In Barcelona, Sara can hardly believe she's somehow made it through half of the season without falling apart. For once, she cannot wait for it to be over. If only summer didn't still scare her so much. It's pathetic, maybe, being scared of summer when December has barely even started. What helps is having a friend like Mila around, who doesn't seem to be scared of anything, ever. She seems more than happy to let Sara sleep in the spare bed in her hotel room again, just like she's done on that evening Sara knocked on her door after her dreadful attempt to cut Mickey out of her heart. They talk and they laugh, and they end up sharing a bed again, and Mila grins and presses her ice-cold feet against Sara's calves and makes her squeal and laugh until she's out of breath and feels ridiculously lighthearted, as if she could soar into the sky and float away. Mila's hand finds hers, their fingers intertwining naturally by now, and Sara knows she won't be tossed about by the wind even if she did get swept away, because Mila will hold her, and Mila is strong.

Mickey isn't here, since he didn't make the Final after all, and even though Sara feels like it's her fault, she knows that it isn't. It's weird without him by her side, constantly nagging and bragging and trying to shield her from the rest of the world, claiming her all for himself. It has often been suffocating. But it has also always made her feel safe. And loved.

There's an empty space where he should be, and Sara is trying so hard not to miss him. But even when they're together, there's a distance now that has never been there before. She doesn't know how long this will last, whether they'll drift apart and be able to heal, or be inevitably drawn together like moths to the flame. She can't deny that she misses Mickey's heat. But she doesn't want to get burned again, and she knows if they slip just once, the resulting fallout would be worse than ever.

Mila, miraculously, remains by her side, even though Sara is such a mess, while Mila is being the best friend one could wish for. She's badass and funny, and the embodiment of coolness. So cool that being with her feels like a soothing balm on sun-burnt skin. She's also literally cold; her hands are always freezing, and Sara always offers to warm them up. First because she just really wants to help her friend, even just a little bit, in return for her helping Sara more than she is probably aware of. But then also because Mila's eyes always light up at the suggestion, and Sara really likes to see that.

The Final is a rush, like every year. Sara is not surprised when Mila takes it all. Her own bronze seems like a miracle; she doesn't know how she made the podium when she has felt off balance and shaky during the whole circuit. It's Mila's strong, congratulatory hug that makes it feel real. And even though it grounds her, it also makes her feel like she can fly.

She's confused when she feels the weirdest urge to get ripped and learn how to drive a motorcycle while she listens to Mila gushing about Otabek Altin's biceps. Maybe because a motorcycle would be really helpful with getting away before she has to hear more.

“He only has eyes for that brat, though,” Sara quips with a nod at Plisetsky, a spike of venom in her voice that gives Mila pause. There's a knowing sparkle in Mila's blue eyes as she playfully laces her fingers with Sara's, who is suddenly very glad she didn't flee on her hypothetical motorcycle.

“Oh, I know that. But that brat seems to be terribly oblivious.”

Sara can't meet her eyes, then.

“Maybe he just needs a little more time to get used to the idea,” she mumbles, carefully. Mila's hand gives hers a gentle squeeze.

“Good thing love isn't a race,” Mila smiles, and winks at her.

The Ice Tiger proofs that he is not oblivious at all during his surprising exhibition skate, though. There's nothing subtle about it. It's brave, and wild, and makes Sara think that sometimes you just need to take a leap of faith, trusting that your hot best friend won't bite your finger off during an impromptu striptease in front of thousands of people.

She still thinks that Mila is right, though. Love isn't a race. It can't be a race for the simple fact that there doesn't seem to be any sort of start or finish line. You don't hear someone fire a starting pistol, you just find yourself hitting the ground running some day, cupid's arrow sticking out of your chest. From then on out you're on the run, caught in a game of hide and seek, with no idea where you're headed, and no end in sight. It's always been like that, for her.

When she first learns that Mila's lips taste like cherries she wants to cry with relieve. They've been painted dark red that night, like wine, and Sara was so scared.

Mila is all soft curves and silky skin, and her touch is so tender that Sara thinks Mila is afraid of breaking her. As if she wasn't already broken. As if she was precious, somehow, or might crumple if Mila's fingers moved more forcefully. Sara doesn't want Mila to think she's so weak. She doesn't want Mila to find out that in truth, she's even weaker.

When they part at the airport, Sara knows that Mila wants to kiss her good-bye. But there are cameras everywhere, and Sara can't. She can't let Mickey find out like this. She can't reveal this to the world. Not before Sara knows what 'this' even is.

Plisetsky and Altin cast each other overly casual glances across the distance that speak of a similar dilemma. And Sara grins despite herself as she boards her flight, shaking her head about relating so much to the blond teen, of all people, but she can't help but feel like quite the love-struck teenager herself. It feels surprisingly exhilarating.

The rest of the season goes by like a never-ending tug of war. Whenever Mickey pulls, Sara pushes, and whenever he pushes, Sara pulls away.

Mila, though. Mila is her only constant.

Stolen kisses in the dark. It's so familiar, yet so different. She's used to keeping secrets. This feels like it should be, because she doesn't know anything else.

She suspects that Mila's eyes would shine even brighter in the light, but Sara still clings to the comfort of hiding in the dark. The dark, in this case, being the twilight of an empty storage room at the long-awaited Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding reception. The first room they stumbled into had been occupied by a grumpy looking Hero of Kazakhstan and a very angry Russian kitten, the latter quick to spew insults at them for the interruption. But all Sara was able to hear was Mila's pearling laughter as they hastily retreated from the raging wildcat and found a different place to share some privacy. They don't get too many moments like this. The season has kept them both busy, and the few stolen moments at competitions have been overshadowed by the stress and strains that come with the territory, as well as Sara's ever growing panic that Mickey might learn her secret.

Sara's lips find Mila's in the darkness, and Sara sighs happily against that pretty, delicious mouth, and Mila lets out a laugh that's much too loud; it will cause them to get caught. It's thrilling in a way that hiding with Mickey never was, because it's not nearly as dangerous. And Sara can't bring herself to tell Mila to be more quiet.

Sara is glad that she has made plans to go to Yakov's summer camp this year, while Mickey will stay in Naples. Glad that the beautiful girl in her arms never pushes, never pulls, never makes claims and never, ever makes her feel ashamed.

Mila looks so happy, and Sara doesn't fully understand how that's possible. It seems surreal that Mila is still there, even though she's seen the cracks in Sara's shell, and the wasteland of wounds and scars that lay underneath. Sara is trying her best to hide it even while she lets Mila get under her skin, and she knows that she can't have it both ways. She's still convinced that Mila will run at any given moment, when she finally pieces the puzzle together and realizes how tainted and torn Sara truly is.

Though maybe not right now, if the way Mila's cold fingers dance over Sara's thigh as she pushes up her pale yellow summer dress is any indication. Sara giggles. She's had too much champagne, and Mila has had too much vodka. She sways, and then Mila sways as well, and they tumble against a pile of cardboard boxes that thankfully contain something that's heavy enough that they can brace their combined weight against them without toppling to the ground. Mila wastes no time before kissing her again. There's not enough room in here to comfortably do anything too adventurous, but that only makes her look forward to summer camp all the more.

Then the door is pushed open, and they're exposed to the light.

Sara jumps away from Mila like it's a deeply rooted instinct, her heart in her throat, terror making her knees buckle. When she recognizes the shadowy silhouette in the doorway, framed by light and shaking in tune with herself, she opens her mouth to scream, but her throat is blocked by an ages old dam meant to keep her tears at bay. She knows it won't hold, this time.

Mickey is holding a bottle of wine in his hand. Sara can't read the label, but she doesn't have to. She knows it's the right vintage. It always is.

He tumbles a shaky half-step back, and yet his fists are clenched and his shoulders squared. Ever her protector. She can see his face now as the hallway lights expose it, and wishes she couldn't. She's never seen that much raw pain in his eyes, nor so much anger.

Mila plants her feet more firmly on the ground and balls her fists. Her chin is raised, her eyes are burning blue flames. She's not afraid, and she's fully prepared to fight.

And for once, Mickey isn't.

The bottle slips from his fingers and shatters. It's too loud, that piercing wail of breaking glass, like it's not the only thing that broke just now. The wine on the floor looks like blood. Blood that has completely drained from Mickey's face. He looks dead when their eyes meet. All fire burned out.

They're at a crossroads, and Micky stands frozen in that doorway for what feels like forever.

“Mi-” Sara's voice dies before it can commit.

Mickey gives her one last, lost look and she knows she won't see him again for a long time. The off-season is about to begin. The world is a big place.

Mickey turns and runs.

“Mila,” Sara whispers shakily, her throat filled with broken glass, “Hold me?”

Mila's arms are slender but strong. Her lips don't ask any questions, and still taste like cherries.

Sara has just returned to her almost empty bedroom from storing two more boxes in the car when she finds Mila taking apart the rest of the furniture. For a moment she's distracted by the sight of her, wearing nothing but a black pair of bib overalls and a pink sports bra. She's so beautiful.

Then Sara realizes that Mila is lying under her old desk, loosening the screws of the roof of many childhood forts. It always was a trusted place to hide away, and Mila is about to dismantle it.

Mila cranes her neck to smile at Sara, and Sara knows she's seen them. The little hearts scratched into the underside of the desktop. Misshapen little things with tiny little Ms in them. They look like they've been carved into the hard surface just days ago, but they both know that that's not true.

Sara wants so much to return Mila's smile, but she's frozen in place while hot shame is burning her alive from the inside.

She doesn't see Mila get up from under the desk, but she allows her legs to buckle just a little when she feels her strong arms embrace her tightly a moment later. Sara has dared to hope that she has no more tears left to cry by now, but apparently this well is deep.

“It's okay,” Mila whispers with a kiss and another smile, and Sara knows that Mila means it, but she's still wrong.

“No, it's not. It never was,” Sara replies. It's like a miracle that she has a voice that can at least function along the fringes of this topic, now. Her throat still jams shut when she tries to go too deep, but Mila never pushes. Mila is just there, and Sara is slowly starting to trust that she won't suddenly disappear. Having seen her sign her name on the papers to their new apartment has admittedly helped a lot with that.

“I'll just get a new desk,” Sara says, glad that her voice isn't breaking any more, but her guts are still burning and she feels dirty, like she's covered in ages old soot.

“You know what I thought when I saw just now?” Mila asks, and her voice is so soft, so soothing, but Sara is still trembling and shakes her head. She doesn't want to know. But Mila tells her anyway.

“I thought that maybe you were able to look into the future without realizing it, and those hearts have always meant me.”

A silly noise between a sob and a laugh escapes Sara's lips, just as silly as Mila's words.

“You're the worst when you're trying to be sappy,” Sara giggles, helplessly in love. It feels new, and fresh, and different.. And most of all, it doesn't feel wrong.

She looks into Mila's bright eyes and kisses her cherry red lips and feels the flames of shame slowly sizzle out, retreating into burned ground. They'll be back, Sara knows that, but maybe that's okay, because she also knows that Mila will be there to staunch the fire and sooth the burns and help Sara rise from the ashes.

Maybe, Sara dares to think when Mila kisses her more deeply, ever cold fingertips lightly dancing over her warm skin, maybe Mila's words weren't so silly. For the longest time, all Sara has been able to see was one past summer, casting such long shadows that it tainted her present and shaded her view so much she couldn't see the future at all. But now she can.

“I'll get a new desk,” Sara says firmly. It's a promise.

Their living-room window looks out over the snow-covered city, glistening under the bright winter sun, making Sara squint as she gazes outside. Sometimes she misses the warmth of her home-country, but not now, not with Mila curled up against her under an over-sized, ridiculously soft blanket. Mila's phone dings, and she grumbles a bit but still moves to check it. Sara can't help but smile.

It's the silence that follows, and the sudden tension in Mila's shoulders, that make Sara's smile falter when she guesses who the message is from. She doesn't take her eyes off the snowy glow of Saint Petersburg. Mila types for a moment and the tension grows, but Sara doesn't move, not an inch, not even when Mila finally, carefully, speaks.

“Emil says Michele is doing well.”

Sara nods, eyes glued to snow covered roofs and frosted tree tops.

“He's training two of the juniors now. He'll be at Skate Canada with them.”

So will Sara. She nods again, a simple gesture of acknowledgment that she might run into him for the first time in over two years. She hasn't seen him since he retired.

She can tell there is more, though, looming in the heavy silence that follows, the same sort of silence that hangs between the mountains before an avalanche breaks lose. Sara braces herself for the impact.

“He and Emil...” Mila pauses and Sara knows she's licking her cherry lips while she tries to decide how to phrase the rest of the sentence. It's unlike her to be hesitant. Like she already knows that the avalanche is coming and doesn't know how to keep Sara safe. Sara reaches for her hand without looking, and squeezes it softly.

“They're getting married in April, after Worlds.”

Avalanches can be deceptively silent, so Sara stays still for a long moment, waiting for it to hit and sweep her off her feet and bury her under tons and tons of ice.

“Emil says he'd like to invite us, but...” Mila's voice trails off, and Sara is still holding both her breath and Mila's hand in anticipation of a tidal wave that never comes. And the moment passes, and time moves on, and nothing changes. She's still looking out the window at the beautiful Russian winter.

“I'll tell him we won't go,” Mila says with an easy smile and a kiss to Sara's cheek, already prepared to dig Sara out from under tons of snow. Finally, Sara looks away from the window and into Mila's blue eyes. She wraps her arms around her and pulls her close.

“Of course we're going, silly,” Sara hears herself say, a wide smile spreading on her lips. She feels so light all of a sudden. Laughter is bubbling up in her throat, and there's no reason to keep it bottled up, so she just lets it out. Mila's eyes are wide; she seems more surprised than Sara is that they haven't been hit by a natural disaster by now.

“My brother is getting married,” Sara says, just to proof that the words truly can't harm her, “I want to be there and wish him all the best for his future. And tell him that I want him to be happy. As happy as I am.”

Mila's eyes are still wide, shining suspiciously when Sara leans in to kiss her. When the familiar taste of salt touches her tongue, Sara holds her closer, and kisses those tears away, like Mila has done countless times for her, without questions, without fault. Someday, Sara might tell her everything. But maybe she doesn't even need to. Now that the future looks so bright, there's no need to dwell on the past. She doesn't mention Mila's tears, because she knows Mila hates to cry, though Sara suspects that this time might be different. After all, these are tears of happiness and relief that Mila has so patiently waited to be able to shed for so, so long. Sara's own cheeks remain dry; the well is finally empty. She just keeps kissing Mila until the taste of salt fades and the familiar flavor of cherries returns. And then she kisses her some more.

Sara can't remember that summer has once tasted like grapes and wine; not when cherries are so much sweeter. The changing of seasons doesn't scare her any more. As long as Mila is kissing her, it will always be summer.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago and never felt comfortable enough to share, even though I'm kinda proud of it. I'll leave it on anon for now because it's very different from my usual style, but I really enjoyed exploring Sara's emotional journey in this one.


End file.
